


And Forever With Each Breathing

by aerialbots



Series: the stars downward drifting [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: War for Cybertron
Genre: M/M, Seeker Trines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4738961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialbots/pseuds/aerialbots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Imagine a room, a sudden glow. Here’s my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated cities at the center of me."</i> -- Richard Siken, <i>Saying Your Names.</i></p>
<p>There are no constants in war, Silverbolt's learned. Jetfire proves him wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Forever With Each Breathing

He doesn't want to get attached. People are ephemeral, nowadays, constantly going undercover or getting assigned to other teams in the best cases, or simply becoming lost forever, in the worst. You can't trust attachment to be enough to keep anyone near, safe, whole, the same way you can't trust neither sky nor ground to keep you safe, ever since the war started.

He doesn't want to get attached.

And yet he does.

 

 

If he were to be honest, he'd have to admit that, at first, he doesn't really think about Jetfire.

Though perhaps that's not quite true. It's not so much that Jetfire's unremarkable, because Silverbolt, the Air Commander, notices the near-endless list of skills and knowledge and experience in his recruitment file, notes every detail for consideration in future tactics.

Silverbolt, the mech who has just lost a trinemate, however, simply doesn't have it in him to care about the newest flier in their fold.

He's _tired_ , is the thing, he's tired and aching to his most fundamental level, and no matter Air Raid's stilted attempts at reciprocation, Silverbolt is still trine leader. At his core, he has always been the one to keep everyone from falling apart. He doesn't think he knows how to be on the other end of it.

It doesn't show in his performance in the field, nor the clockwork punctuality of his mission reports, but the cracks are there, behind all his welds and layers.

Jetfire is hurting, too, under that fragile armour of reserve and politeness, and the familiarity he finds in the stiff lines of his wings and the carefully controlled waves of his field have wariness and sympathy warring within Silverbolt's spark every time he so much as looks at Jetfire.

It's easier to hide behind his duties, less painful not to think about him too hard, and so Silverbolt doesn't.

 

 

On one hand, he can't say he didn't know it was coming.

On the other, Silverbolt can't believe they would dare ask this of Air Raid and him so soon.

_This is not how you do this_ , he wants to howl, because he knew all the shuffling of people into and out of their team would eventually have to end, but he expected command to at least _ask their opinion_. Trines are not meant to be made by some grounder tactician with a bunch of files to pick and match like a sparkling's puzzle, and even though he knows just from one mission together that Jetfire is the best option they've found so far -- even though he realises it still would've been him they chose eventually, had command not intervened -- every single one of Silverbolt's instincts and everything instilled in him by culture and upbringing is screaming to rise and hiss and protest, and not move an inch until they leave his remaining trinemate and him to their mourning, until these grounders back off and let them do this the natural way.

He wouldn't mind Jetfire on his wing. As antisocial as he's been so far -- as wary as Silverbolt had been, initially -- it took less than an hour into the supply run they’d been sent on for him to realise Jetfire was focused and competent, and easily the cleverest person Silverbolt had ever met; it was only logical for him to be assigned to the Command Wing.

Slingshot, he knows, would've shouted ground glass at him during the mission and somehow still befriended him by the end of next cycle, but Slingshot _isn't_ there, and the awareness that they're trying to use this near stranger to replace him has Silverbolt's spark clawing at its casing just from the thought of it.

Except there's a war outside, and no one has the luxury of grieving, or even letting nature take its course, these cycles.

Silverbolt makes sure to drag Air Raid to the training room for a spar before he gives him the news.

 

 

Air Raid, Primus keep his spark, is a thrice-damned _slagger_.

Silverbolt loves his trinemate. He is also going to kick him out of a window if he doesn't stop harassing their new third.

He wasn't even upset about the news, is the thing -- Silverbolt had been surprised to be angrier than Air Raid about it, surprised to be upset enough that Air Raid actually worried about _him_.

_Can't say we didn't see this coming, no?_ , his wingmate had said, his usual fierce smile dimmed into something gentler and almost sad, and it had been mostly the sight of it that had Silverbolt letting his shoulders loosen and his fists unclench, anger giving way to a heavy-set weariness.

And yet here they are, sitting in the mess with Jetfire and apparently in urgent need of a kick in the aft, in Air Raid's case. Even if most people wouldn't be able to tell, there is a difference between Air Raid being his usual thick-headed self and Air Raid attacking with a purpose, and this, Silverbolt knows, is the later. There's a subtle quality to his words that makes them sharp as scalpels and just as precise, deliberate little jabs looking for the best point for a bigger cut, and Silverbolt is beginning to lose his patience.

Jetfire can take it, Silverbolt is aware, and he suspects Air Raid's reasons for wanting to get under his plating might go beyond having a bit of fun annoying the new kid, but it doesn't make it _right_ for him to bully him like this, and there's only so many times he can change topics and kick Air Raid under the table before it becomes obvious.

 

 

It takes a few cycles, but then the inevitable comment about frametypes comes up, and Silverbolt has suddenly had enough.

He doesn't really think about it, when he says it, but Air Raid's wings flick back sharply and he retaliates as naturally as he flies, just as Silverbolt expected -- as Slingshot used to say, Air Raid's aerial prowess is only lesser to his douchebaggery.

The entire mess seems to go quiet, for a moment or two, but that might just be Silverbolt's embarrassment playing with his perception, and next thing he knows, everyone's become forcibly cheerier and louder than before, as if they could avoid it all by burying it six metres deep in bad jokes and awkward laughter, which he guesses is as fair an idea as anything else.

Jetfire's gone quiet, his field fluctuating so wildly for a moment it'd be funny in any other circumstances, and Silverbolt knows that if he were to look at him, he'd find Air Raid's optics fixed on him, laser-sharp and inquiring, so he simply doesn't look at him at all.

He turns back to his datapad, instead. Acrophobia or not, the war doesn't wait for anyone, and Prime needs that report before last shift.

 

 

Trines always share quarters, no matter how difficult the arrangements are to make, and this is one point Silverbolt is grateful his superiors will respect -- he doesn't think half his troops would still be as functional by this point if they'd been broken into pairs and mixed with others, as is usually done with grounders.

He is particularly thankful for it once he realises Air Raid is trying to corner him without Jetfire around; it makes it nearly impossible for his trinemate to catch him unless he wants to snag him in the middle of a meeting with command and risk Prime's displeasure, which is one of the few things that'll keep Air Raid in check. He doesn't particularly want to discuss why he went so far in his defense of Jetfire -- most of all because he's not quite sure, himself, beyond the exhaustion in Jetfire's every move and how it resonates with the ache in Silverbolt's spark, and he doesn't really know how to go about explaining it.

On the other hand, it also means he's not entirely surprised to find himself pulled into an empty dead-end of a corridor around a decacycle after the mess hall incident, Air Raid's wings high and his optics fixed on him.

The trick doesn't work too well on Silverbolt, given that he's at least two heads taller than his wingmate, but the intent behind it is enough to give him pause.

Air Raid asks, _Are we keeping him, then?_ , and his voice might be level, but his frame is so tense Silverbolt is surprised he isn't shaking. His wingmate isn't just badgering their new third for the sake of it -- he's looking for his weak spots because he's _afraid_ , and the confirmation makes Silverbolt's spark break a little further.

_I'm scared flightless, too_ , he wants to confess, but this, here, the non-tremors in Air Raid's ailerons and the uncertain set of his frame -- this is why he was made trine leader. This he can control, soothe, fix, and so when he says, _Yes_ , the single glyph unequivocal and definite, he means, _I won't let you be hurt again._

This is what Silverbolt's for, and so Air Raid's optics clear, still fixed on him, his entire frame relaxing minutely and his wings lowering to their natural position, words as easy as flying and as heavy with meaning as gravity itself, _Alright, then._

This is what Silverbolt does: he touches his forehead to Air Raid's, optics shut and fields bared, and leads him outside to steal a couple of cycles chasing the stars, while they still can.

 

 

Everything seems to settle relatively soon after this, like new wires after an upgrade being set into their proper place, and Silverbolt feels slightly guilty for how easy it is, having Jetfire as their third. He misses Slingshot, the void of him like suddenly losing an entire set of sensors, leaving him numb and clumsy and awkward, but the more time passes, the more Jetfire's presence feels like a balm over the wound of loss. Silverbolt finds he likes the mech, the more he gets to know him, likes his subtle smiles and steady voice, the titanium hidden behind layers of politeness. There's something comforting about him, once he lowers his firewalls a bit, warm and luminous from within like the Fire Lakes during winter, and it's far too easy to fall into a routine of companionable silences and shared smiles, both of them far more comfortable letting Air Raid be the sociable one of the trine.

For his part, Air Raid follows on his unstated promise to behave, and it turns out he and Jetfire get along far better than Silverbolt imagined they would, which is a pleasant change after weeks of inappropriate questions and thinly veiled insults. They seem to be caught in a friendly sort of competition Silverbolt is aware others might take for belligerence -- but most others haven't had to adapt their battle tactics to Jetfire's stubborn insistence on taking shots meant for their smaller trinemate like some sort of flying, living shield. Air Raid becomes rather viciously defensive of Jetfire, as well, and it doesn't take long before everyone else starts treating the shuttle like any normal mech, if only to avoid Air Raid's acerbic comments (or worse).

It's not quite happiness, considering the state of their planet, and there's still the occasional awkward moment as they blunt their hurts on each other, trying to settle into something coherent and whole, but it doesn't matter, on the bigger scheme of things.

They make it work.

 

 

Silverbolt doesn't enjoy the war by any means, but the thing he misses the most about peace is silence. He's used to moving and hiding, now, has become intimately acquainted with pain and hurt and loss, resigned himself to the rationing and lack of privacy, but the sheer level of _noise_ he's constantly surrounded by is what manages to set him off balance.

They're hiding somewhere in Polyhex, in an old, old factory district burrowed into the cliffs, already abandoned eras before the war broke out. The walkways that made the region famous are mostly in decay in the area, not even half of them still sturdy enough to survive use, and Silverbolt's spark aches at the sight of them -- Slingshot had liked to joke about taking him on long walks on the sky-bridges to work on his fear of heights. Finally getting to see his region when he no longer can feels almost a betrayal.

Fixing their latest base to make it habitable doesn't take as long as others have, but the walkways are a more delicate matter, and Silverbolt volunteers his troops to help as soon as the subject is comes up. His fliers won't be at risk if a bridge collapses, and to be honest, he thinks they could use having a task that'll be relatively easy to complete and won't leave them missing trinemates in the end.

It works as well as he dared to hope, but later, away from his cheerier -- if exhausted -- troops and Air Raid's too-knowing optics, Silverbolt stumbles into their quarters and barely has time to lock the door once more before he's shaking too hard to stand, falling to his knees and curling around himself. His systems rattle and whir as he attempts to trick his frame out of burning out his more delicate circuits, spark spinning so fast he feels like drowning, the tug of panic strong enough to smother the pain on his right shoulder where he hit the walkway as he fell.

He's never been one for unnecessary risks, but war makes no concessions, and Silverbolt refuses to ask anyone to do something he wouldn't do himself. Then again, he thinks, swaying on the line between logic and hysteria, maybe it wasn't the best idea to try to repair the highest level of the walkways just to prove a point.

( _The_ point, really, because nothing is ever about anything except justifying his actions, his authority, his existence itself; nothing is ever about anything but trying to prove himself more than his fear.)

He didn't panic in front of his troops, Silverbolt reminds himself, breaking memory into smaller bites, little pieces he can swallow until their weight is enough to ground him. He finished his section and nobody noticed his mishap. Air Raid knew, but Air Raid always knows, because that's what Air Raid does: he slithers under your plating until he knows you better than yourself. Air Raid knew, but Air Raid will keep the knowledge safe, and Jetfire doesn't know him well enough to see -- not yet, at least.

Silverbolt lets himself shake it out, cycles air in loud, careful gasps until the tremors have gone and his frame has cooled, until his circuits don't feel like they're about to spark anymore. He's just settled into the furthest corner of his berth when the door slides open again, and it seems inevitable that Jetfire's caught the way he flinches minutely, shoulder twitching painfully as he forces his expression into an ease that's only superficial.

Neither of them speaks, for a moment, their optics caught on each other's, and Silverbolt smiles faintly to mask the fact that he looks away first. Jetfire's optics are warm, and there's a gentleness to the weight of his gaze that Silverbolt doesn't quite know how to cope with, in his current state; he's so off-kilter still that he manages to miss Jetfire stepping closer until he's crouching at the edge of the berth, the tilt of his helm and quirk of a wing returning Silverbolt's nervous smile.

He's always been aware Jetfire's bigger than him -- it's a simple enough fact, just a difference between their types and classes -- but the reminder strikes him suddenly as he realises that even though he's on a higher surface, he still has to raise his optics the smallest degree to meet the shuttle's own.

_I thought I saw you hit the edge_ , Jetfire finally says, glancing at Silverbolt's shoulder before looking back to his face, as steady and unfathomable as still water. _May I?_

Slingshot would've called him an idiot and told him to move already, he had patching up to do. Silverbolt nods yes anyway, because this is what trine is for -- trust, care, _protection_ \-- and the fact that Jetfire not only noticed but _wanted_ to help makes his spark flare with warmth, needs deeper than reason slowly falling quiescent.

Jetfire smiles, just the tiniest tilt of his wings as he sets to repairing Silverbolt, hands gentle but firm, as careful and deliberate as with anything he ever does. He doesn't ask for an explanation, nor does Silverbolt feel obligated to give one, and this more than anything allows him to lower his guard, if only for a moment.

He settles down, shoulders relaxing and wings lowering a degree or two. Jetfire's hands feel cool on his plating, and though Silverbolt is aware it's mostly because he's still running a bit too hot from his panic attack, the sensation is not unpleasant by far. Jetfire's field shifts almost imperceptibly against Silverbolt's own, a pressureless tide, and he hums every so often, quiet, thoughtful sounds escaping his vocaliser as he works on the smaller, more delicate components of Silverbolt's joint. He is lucky not to have hit his wing, really, and yet he can't focus on anything except how soothing it feels. He knows he's safe in Jetfire's hands.

Little by little his field loosens, so slowly he doesn't notice the way it's meshing with Jetfire's own until he feels his wingmate's quiet amusement, an undercurrent of something he could only describe as fondness laced through it all, as evident and unintrusive as the silver in his own alloys. He doesn't startle as much as he feels as though landing after a long flight, the first breathlessness of returning to safety, the strut-deep comfort of knowing he's on steady ground again. He thinks he might fall into recharge, like this.

Jetfire does startle, though, even if his hands remain sure on Silverbolt's shoulder, and he flicks his wings with a low laugh, more intent than sound and seeming weirdly self-conscious. Silverbolt realises a bit drowsily that he's spoken out loud, but Jetfire doesn't seem to mind, and it's been so _long_ since he's been this tired and not had to hide it. He wishes it could be this easy all the time.

_You should, you know_ , Jetfire points out, deftly patching a coolant line on his shoulder. _Recharge, that is. Air Raid and I can take care of things for one evening._

Silverbolt's wings tilt back in a negative, and he even shakes his head for emphasis. He feels as though moving through silicone, impossibly slow and heavy. _I don't think I can._

_Oh, you certainly can_ , Jetfire says, that subtle streak of humour sneaking into his voice, and it steals a rueful laugh from Silverbolt. He's a little glitchy about delegating, that much he can admit. _And your systems would likely thank you for it, but I'd wager you would rather be stubborn and stay up for whatever is left of this shift._

_I. Well, yes_ , Silverbolt says, a little sheepishly, but there's a hazy flutter of amusement distracting him from getting defensive. Jetfire tends to have this effect on him.

It's a rare luxury, being at ease.

As if to prove it, Jetfire just tilts his wings back, good-natured about it, and runs one last scan over Silverbolt's shoulder, inquisitive hands following after to check his own weldwork. _Well, at least you won't be sparking as you go about your duties. Your self-repair protocols should activate in the next few hours and take care of anything else, but I'd still recommend seeing Ratchet at some point._

Silverbolt nods. _I will. Thank you._

Jetfire's optics rest on his own for a moment, and this time it isn't so hard to meet his gaze, not when it's as soft as his voice. _Anytime._

 

 

Air Raid takes a single look at him, later, and his wings take on a decidedly smug tilt.

_Worked it out, then?_ , he asks.

Silverbolt blinks. _Worked what out?_

Air Raid stares at him for a second, then sighs, looking like he wants nothing more than to hit his head against the wall. Repeatedly. _Nothing, Silverbolt. Nevermind._

 

 

It doesn't make sense until several cycles later, when Silverbolt finds Jetfire perched on a disconnected walkway in one of the highest levels.

The stars are bright overhead, far more visible out here in this dark, distant place than in most other bases they've been to, and something in Silverbolt immediately relaxes as he gazes above.

_So this is where you always run off to_ , he wonders out loud, and glances at Jetfire just in time to see his wings flick amicably, his entire frame the most relaxed he's ever seen it.

_It's quiet, out here_ , Jetfire says, agreement or confession. _I... miss space, sometimes. This is the closest I've gotten, since it all began._ A wry twist appears on his mouth. _Deep space travel on wartime rations is not the best idea, as you can imagine._

Silverbolt hesitates despite Jetfire's obvious good mood -- or maybe because of it. He wishes to stay, but doesn't dare stray further from the doorway. He doesn't want to intrude.

_There's a spot about five metres to your right that should be able to stand our combined weight without collapsing the ledge_ , Jetfire adds, turning to look back at Silverbolt as he speaks. _If you'd like to stay, I mean._

Silverbolt smiles at this, just a bit, wings flicking almost reflexively, because it figures Jetfire would see through him without even having to look at him properly.

He sits down where Jetfire indicates, what little remains of the walkway sturdy enough under his bulk. Jetfire leans back on his hands, wings splayed wide enough for his field to brush Silverbolt's a few paces away. His face is tilted once more towards the dark, dark sky, and he looks at peace in a way Silverbolt has never seen him.

Strange, what a few stolen moments under the stars can do for one's spark.

They sit together in silence, though Silverbolt never really manages to remember for how long -- time seems to unravel from its constraint around his wrists, until there's no real measurement but the near-soundless hum of their systems, the waves and ebbs of their energy fields. It's this, as it always seems to be, that manages to grasp his attention, because for all they've managed to get under his armour, there's never quite understanding Jetfire when he doesn't want to be.

Maybe it's the relative safety of the place, the quiet of the gentle dark, or even the imperceptible lullaby of the stars against Cybertron's gravity, but eventually Jetfire seems to just... let go, just slightly, of the myriad of layers he keeps himself under, as if forgetting them were simple as that. There's his ever-present calm at the outmost edge of it, yes, but there's also _concern_ , compassion and empathy and a near-endless well of emotion Silverbolt can't begin to tell apart, can't even describe except for the way it catches and pulls at the parts of his spark that have been kept down so long he barely remembers what to call them.

And there, underneath the maelstrom, hidden deep within everything else, something brighter, and infinitely more fragile.

Silverbolt's spark skips a pulse, breath catching in a soft _oh_ in his throat. Jetfire flinches, though, field falling out of array like he's been shot even as he pulls it close to himself, and Silverbolt reaches out blindly for his hand, thoughtlessly grounding him before he can turn and leave.

_Wait_ , he says, or maybe pleads, a tremor in his voice he doesn't recognise, _Wait, Jetfire--_

_Please don't_ , Jetfire cuts him off, his voice cracked glass, wings high and his face cast down, so tense under Silverbolt's hand he can feel him trembling, _I already know, Silverbolt. It's not going to be a problem._

_It isn't_ , he thoughtlessly wants to say, but it's all just too _sudden _,__ and he can barely understand what's happening beyond the feel of Jetfire's hand under his own, and how hollow he feels after the abrupt loss of field contact.

_A problem,_ he repeats instead, because it seems to have crept under his armour. _Tell me, what exactly do you think you know?_

Jetfire exhales hard, shoulders giving in to tension and gravity, leaning into himself by fractions of a grade. _Do you honestly want to do this?_

_Indulge me_ , Silverbolt says, a little more gently, like this is just another of their late night debates and not something indescribably more important.

_I'd say that's what started the whole damn thing_ , Jetfire says, dry and unexpected and so very _him_ Silverbolt can't quite smother a short, helpless laugh.

(It helps, knowing. When Jetfire's optics soften around the edges at the sound, Silverbolt finally understands why.)

They're quiet again, for a moment, the silence tense and yet not in a way Silverbolt doesn't quite know how to put into words. There's the stars, and the dark, and the faint streaks of light occasionally escaping the base, but mostly he's aware of Jetfire's plating under his own, of the gentle warmth of it beside him, of his voice when he finally speaks.

_We're friends_ , he says, like it's the beginning and end of it all, staring at some vague point on the horizon. _We're friends, and sometimes just looking at you makes me feel like I'm flying too close to a sun, like I've fallen into a gravity well out of my own volition, and even if I could manage it I'm not sure I would want to leave._ Jetfire exhales, breath coiling into tiny wisps of mist in the cold of Polyhex's night, and tilts his head up towards the sky, as if confessing to the stars rather than Silverbolt. _But I'd first give up whatever dregs of sky they allow us to have and join the Research division than make you uncomfortable. It just... It isn't an option._

_I know_ , Silverbolt says, something yearning tugging at him from within, somehow both unknown and familiar at once. _I know you wouldn't, why would you even think--_

Jetfire scoffs, gentle for all the edges of it. _Silverbolt, not everyone thinks as highly of my class as you do, and even though most of the stereotypes_ are _prejudice, the truth remains that we tend to fall hard, if we ever do, and never really get back up once it happens. You'll have to forgive me for erring on the side of caution._

It seems odd, in hindsight, that this is the thing that makes him snap. Then again, Silverbolt's always been far too defensive of Jetfire -- even from Jetfire himself.

Jetfire's stronger than him, but Silverbolt's faster, and he's just about had _enough_ , so it's far too easy to just reach for him and pull him down, closer, until everything that's between them is a couple of inches of empty space and breath.

_No, I won't_ , Silverbolt says quietly, fiercely, their optics meeting in a clash of blue. _Because you're erring on the side of_ stubbornness _, and you know I_ hate it _when you talk about yourself like--_

It doesn't seem too odd, however, that Jetfire kisses him just then.

It's barely more than pressure, than _intent _,__ but it's enough to make everything finish falling into place, enough to make Silverbolt follow when Jetfire pulls back. His mouth is firm, and warm, his hands careful as they come up to cradle Silverbolt's face, and when Silverbolt presses their foreheads together, stopping to catch their breath, Jetfire lets out the softest of sighs.

_I'm not done scolding you_ , Silverbolt murmurs, just for the quiet laugh he knows it'll get out of Jetfire, and isn't disappointed. His field is relaxing, slowly, and Silverbolt feels his shoulders loosen as it meshes with his, breathes in deep as tension leaves his own frame. _Though you're invited to try to distract me again, if that's how you plan to go about it._

_I think that could be arranged_ , Jetfire agrees, nuzzling their faces together, a whisper of a caress that makes Silverbolt instinctively lean closer, greedy for contact in a way that feels strange and wonderful.

_Good_ , Silverbolt says, kisses him again, and again, and again. _Good._

**Author's Note:**

> All of the thanks to akisawana, who listened to my endless chatter about WfC Aerials for an entire year until this actually made sense, and to lostandtold for concrit and hand-holding.


End file.
